Chariot of Fire
by Alexis Machine
Summary: Silly squabbles, ice cream, Old Testament prophets, cowboys... what? It's WesleyFaith, you wanted it to be normal?


Gentlemen... behold things I don't own!  
  
Ah... I think those belong to Joss Whedon, doctor.  
  
Then he shall have to prepare for the corn, Steve, not me!  
  
Uh, yeah... it's good corn.  
  
Hmm. A bit confusing, diggling with deep issues/emotional scars/Zane Grey. I hope this shyte aint too hard to follow. If it do be, then mail me up and I'll explain my reasoning/unleash the corn. I mean, crazy people's moods DO shift around a lot, so that's not inaccurate. I should know, been around enough of em. Heh.  
  
***  
  
Supermarkets are big, loud bright places; babies cry, folks chatter and cluck like chickens in the yard and sundry machines beep, chipper droids on an amphetamine rush. In short, due to a lack of supervision (Floyd the 70 odd year old bag boy was SO not intimidating) and a plethora of things for the easily bored and highly imaginative to do, they were really, really good places to wreak major havoc. Wesley noted though, with wry amusement, that Faith seemed to be resisting this primal urge, like that of a salmon to leap upstream and spawn, with something akin to the discipline of a Shaolin monk. Everytime they passed something precariously stacked her hands stayed by her sides or laced into one of his, though he could certainly feel their ache to test the balance of pyramidal cans and boxes, perhaps to see if the same magic kept them upright as did their more impressive, stone Egyptian counterparts. And they had been runningerrands all day! He stroked her side, fondly, "Most tempting, isn't it?"  
  
She snorted, "I have NO fucking clue what you're talking about, English."  
  
  
  
"No?"   
  
Faith motioned with her hand, "Zilch. When are we going to get my ice cream, dude? You've had me on a damn rabbit diet for like, years."  
  
"And it's kept you in the best shape of your life."  
  
"You'd know best, I guess, Wesley-boy,"  
  
"That's why I'm leaning on the cart at this very moment, rather than walking erect like a human should," he pressed forward, looking for all the world like a man at least his 20 years past his father's age, probably more.  
  
A glass jar display beckoned to Faith but, like a good little girl, she ignored its thunderous call. I'd love to tip that over and just run! Instead, she chose to torment Wes with a whole new group she had discovered all on her own (Wow, am I the total shit or what?), "Well, if you want to rest up, babe, I guess that's all up to you... I mean, if you can't take it... I really don't want to hurt you, you know..." Somehow, Faith managed to fight down the bubbling of giggles that threatened to rise. All the world's a stage, as Shakespeare or someother dead white guy one said, and Faith knew that the good actresses stayed in character until the final curtain fell  
  
  
  
He stopped dead, a moment, "That really rather comes a surprise, now, doesn't it, old boy?"  
  
She rested her head on his broad shoulder, unable to suppress that cat's grin now, "Listen, all that shit about a 'normal human', earlier... normal humans don't talk to their penis, hon."  
  
"How very odd you thought that, dear," he glanced over at her, "I was talking to my shoe." He raised his foot up, "I appear to have stepped in some gum." Something in his eyes, such a deep blue, made her shiver, along with the classic lines of his face and that cultured voice. The word patrician wasn't really in Faith's vocabulary (hell, a lot of word's weren't, but talk's cheap, eh?), but it might have come close to describing the attraction... maybe. There was element of that same thing she didn't like, today, though, and she couldn't quite place her finger on it (only thing I can't, too, as Wesley-boy can tell you).  
  
"Okay, okay, your shoe, whatever, still weird. I still need some ice cream, man."  
  
"You don't need ice cream, Faith. It's unhealthy."  
  
She laid her strong, fine-boned hands on his midsection. As always, her movements were graceful and cat like, probably more out of a desire to move as little as possible than any innate elegance, and he didn't know how she got their quite so quickly, "I do need ice cream, Princess, and I know exactly how to get it if you're not Mommy's good little boy."  
  
He froze, no longer feigning necessity for the cart's support, "You wouldn't dare..."  
  
"Right in the middle of this aisle, hon; pickles, peppers and an Englishman laughing his fucking head off, right in the middle of this here aisle."  
  
A Mexican standoff. Well, that's what he really wanted to call this highway robbery. Wesley knew his laugh was both loud and braying, and she knew how much he hated unnecessary public attention. An older lady colored in that ubiquitous color known as mouse stood a ways on, looking at too expensive ground beef with one eye, wondering with the other why she and her husband couldn't be as close as that cute little couple. Through gritted teeth, "Alright since you're obviously going to insist,"   
  
"Insist, hell, I'm gonna tickle you til you laugh your guts out."  
  
An eyebrow went up, and that thing that made her shivery about him happened again, "Since you're going to insist, you can have your ice cream... nothing too elaborate, please? If you don't mind."   
  
She hugged his neck hard enough to make vertebrae crackle like tinder, "Yay! and began to wiggle away, chanting in the bizarrely sing-song little girl manner she had sometimes, "Ice cream, ice cream, ice cream."  
  
He lurched forward, leaning on the shopping cart again, "Yes, that's just the thing you need, refined sugar."  
  
Her progress halted and a pair of very large, very dark eyes rested on that classical face, "I can get it myself, hon. Meet you up front?"  
  
  
  
"No, no," he shook his head, "I can go with you. I really would rather not meet my death from old age, waiting on your return."  
  
Something flinched, "It's okay Wes, I'll hurry. No worry about dying, all right?"  
  
He rolled his eyes, "I have shopped with women before, darling." There it was again! That thing in his voice she hadn't liked.  
  
"Well, you know me. Not your average girl" she shrugged.  
  
"Come now, let's forget this unpleasantness and get your ice cream... cherry-mint cheesecake swirl?" his voice lilted up a little bit. That unholy concoction of chemicals was her favourite flavour... Wes inwardly shuddered.  
  
Something about that lilt struck home in her mind and brushed away the pleasure of even cherry-mint cheesecake swirl, and the little flinch hurt like a full blown ulcer, right in her gut. Those magnificent, shimmering eyes narrowed, "You've been patronizing me all goddamn day!" She mocked his slightly breathy voice, "'Most tempting, isn't it?'" She was reaching full voice, "Damn! You think I'm gonna do what, walk on over to the ice cream and go on a 30 year mass murder spree or get lost or something like a little fucking girl while you wait here and turn into more of a goddamned old biddy?"  
  
Iron clenched in Wesley's spine, "Is this public a scene really necessary?" He tried to appeal to her common sense, if such a creature were more than mere fable.  
  
Faith, however, was a natural if untutored actress, and loved every instant of any chance to showcase her nearly operatic vocal skills,"I'm twenty two fucking years old, Wes, and I been a fucking adult since I was about twelve. I can walk to the frozen fucking foods and get goddamned ice cream!" She was flushed, breasts heaving with effort over at least twelve different emotions... what as show!  
  
A crowd was gathering, and Wesley's face was turning red, "Listen to me, Faith, that's not what I meant--"  
  
"Then what did you mean? You're treating me like every other man ever did, Wes, 'a good fuck, til I leave her' I guess, nothing more... I thought we were going to play real?" She sighed, "What did I really expect? Some respect? Nah." Somewhere a black woman shouted, "Testify!" Encouraged, Faith raged on, "I was going to stop at the bathroom on the way back... want to hold my hand there too?" She smiled, "Damn, I know you're kinky, but..."  
  
Finally, composure gone, he thundered, "For the love of God!" The crowd reeled back. What a big voice to come out of such a skinny guy.  
  
Faith stuck out her tongue and, in full knowledge of her victory, stormed off, head held high. Wesley left a full cart, all too aware of the audience applauding his--girlfriend's?--departure. Well, whether or not she was earlier, she wasn't his girlfriend now. THAT much was obvious at least. She wasn't waiting at the car either. Wesley collapsed behind the wheel and blew out a deep breath. He could hear his father's voice, chortling, 'Handled that one well, didn't you, lad?'   
  
He stopped at a convenience store on the way home. Really dingy, but this wasn't LA's trendier side (Rogue Demon Hunters, after all, don't pull six figures, regularly) and it likely had all he was looking for. Maybe she'd gone back to the apartment to cool off? No. Not likely. The evil Roger Wyndam-Price voice, rolling with glee up in his mind, was right. He'd handled this one MOST adequately. Wes picked up the strongest liquor he could find, tequila-- not even this utter cock up was worthy of the inhuman torture known as vodka--and added it almost lovingly to his cart. You and I, old girl, he thought with what little whimsy remained in him, are to spend a lovely night getting to know each other. Time to check out. The clerk, a heavy-set man probably just a little north of fifty, had his feet propped on the counter, reading a dog-eared, paperback copy of Riders on the Purple Sage. Zane Grey. Not since his bizarre obsession with American cowboys at age eight, which his father disapproved as heartily as everything else and his mother facilitated, had he seen that name, or even glanced over it in his memory. All his cowboy books had been crated up and sold while he was away at the academy. Hmm. "Excuse me, sir?"  
  
Placid, almost sad grey eyes peered up over the book, and Wesley almost apologized for interrupting the good man's reading. Old habits do die hard. He marked the page with a thick index finger and spoke in a voice that matched the face, low and gravely as a Nevada street, "Yessir?"  
  
Wesley laid his items on the counter, starting with the tequila. The clerk swung his feet down, "Lord have mercy, I was just getting to the good part." He eyed the novel appreciatively, "Fine book. You ever read it, mister?"  
  
"I actually have."  
  
"Funny, considering you're my brother from across the pond," he laughed, gently, tapping the prices into his old, manual register,"course, what am I saying? Just cause you're English doesn't mean you can't have good taste."  
  
  
  
Wesley almost managed to smile, "Indeed."  
  
  
  
"So," tap tap tap tap, "what'd you two break up for?"  
  
"Hmm?" Wesley's eyebrows raised. Strange way to make conversation.  
  
"Only reason a man might buy that liquefied hell fire is if his woman is done and gone," he laughed like rocks cracking, "I'm well acquainted with it, myself."  
  
"Oh, I see," this man certainly wasn't heartening, "I think we broke up over ice cream."  
  
"There's worse things to break up over. Dissolved a relationship over ice cream myself."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Well," he bagged everything up, "not really. More that she brought home the wrong damn flavour of ice cream one day--cherry-mint cheesecake swirl, I really loathe that stuff--and I said something, and everything just poured out on the floor like so much melted ice cream." He nodded, "Now that was a good analogy, I think." He nodded toward the plastic bag, "That'll be $14.71."  
  
Some prescience moved Wesley, "Could you hold on a minute?"  
  
"As tightly as Elijah to that chariot of fire."  
  
The apartment was pitch black and, when Wesley flicked on the lights, everything he'd bought almost dropped to the ignominy to the floor, "Oh, hello Faith, here to murder me, perhaps?"  
  
Her long legs were tucked up under her, on the couch, "Duh, I told you I'm over that, Princess. Jeez, for a smart guy you are a serious dumbass, you know that? I mean, listening is the first thing they teach you in fucking kindergarten," she snickered, "even I got that far, you know?"  
  
He flopped in a chair by the couch, bags still on his lap, "I thought you'd be long gone," (done and gone rumbled through Wesley's mind), "headed to Mexico, or somewhere equally fanciful." Why now, of all times, were lines from Riders on the Purple Sage clustering inside his skull?  
  
"Why Mexico?" she snorted, "I look like a jalapeno fucking senorita to you, Princess? Nah... I got nowhere else to go, might as well come back here." She seemed calm but, from past experience, Wes knew she was a coiled adder under lovely, autumn leaves.  
  
"I do have something for you," he rummaged through a visibly sweating bag on his lap."  
  
"Oh, boy," she twirled a finger in the air, "some modern, sensitive man, 'so sorry I'm an asshole' greeting card... how can I ever contain all this joy?" Faith's head lolled back and she exhaled.  
  
"Drat, I suppose I shall have to eat all this myself," he produced a gallon of ice cream, sweaty enough to be melty and good.  
  
Her vision immediately zeroed in like lasers. Caramel crunch! Not cherry cheesecake swirl (what was other than that delicious nectar itself?), but certainly not horseshit, either, and yet... "You're still patronizing me, dammit." It WAS tempting, but, "You can't right the world's wrongs with ice cream, dude." That was, of course, entirely up to debate, but not now.  
  
"I'm not patronizing you," his voice was totally sincere. Well, as sincere as any man's was going to be, Faith guessed, "I bought you ice cream because you wanted it, and I know you enjoy it."  
  
  
  
She huffed, "I'll eat it on two conditions, babes."  
  
"Yes? I'm at your mercy, my dear."   
  
"You better not fucking forget it, mister!"   
  
"Your conditions?"  
  
"Hear me out, and feed me it."  
  
"I suppose I can live with those." She sat on his lap and, with the passing of a couple of hours, the caramel crunch died for a righteous cause. He swirled the spoon on the carton's soupy bottom one last time, and popped it into her mouth, "So, now that I've 'fed you it', as you so eloquently ordered, are you prepared to tell me what you ordered me listen?"  
  
She nestled against him, tense, as always, but most of her anger drained away. Faith wasn't a person who held her temper fits long, thankfully, "Nah, some other time."  
  
"Come along," he stroked her masses of dark curls, "all this is going to do is fester, if we leave it alone."  
  
"Uncle Fester," she giggled, "he was cool."  
  
"Fifi..."  
  
He felt five nails dig deep enough into his forearm to draw blood, "Gee, I thought you liked having meat on that bone, retard."  
  
"Point taken... all five of them, actually. Now," he gave her arm a little squeeze, thankful that the nails were no longer digging under his skin, "I'm ready to hear you out."  
  
"Well..." she choked out. He started to say something, but that same prescience told him to stop. If he'd really been patronizing her, earlier, then now was a good time to stop. She stammered on, "when I was about 7, when the folks started really rocking and rolling, you know, but before the foster homes and all that shit, I lived with my Uncle Blake for a while." She sighed, letting that good friend to one and all gravity sink her deeper into Wesley's chest, "More like my great uncle, but Uncle Blake was fucking cool, even if he was, um..." she struggled, "60 something, I guess? Good guy, and he said he wouldn't ever leave me, like Mom had. Anyways, about a week or two after I went to live with him, Uncle Blake died and I found him in front of the TV, after school... still was going then, too. Thought he was asleep. Crawled up in his lap and kissed him and everything, and he just wouldn't wake up." Wes felt tears on his throat, and he folded her closer into him, "That's when they started me in those goddamn foster homes, man... the first one..." she clenched, "can I just say it was bad, guy?"  
  
He murmured assent into her hair, rocking her. Faith's voice was tiny, the little girl she had been, not the woman she was now, "When you said, ' I'd really rather not meet my death from old age,' you touched a fucking nerve." Faith was drained. That he had been talking down to her like a four year old was a beast to be slain another day. This had been preying on her like a multi-tentacled horror, writhing on the bottom of her mind's inky ocean. She brushed back Wes's hair and looked up into his dark blue eyes, "Call me a fucking moron, but I really don't want to lose you like that, guy."   
  
  
  
Softly, gently, he kissed her lips, "Fucking moron."  
  
She settled down on him, again, "Bitch," and sighed, "promise to not leave me?"  
  
"I'll hold you tighter than Elijah held that chariot of fire." They held fast on the couch, wrapped up in darkness and the night's silent, moving, perfect music. 


End file.
